


pretty things and how to kill them

by vaurien



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Magi: Labyrinth of Magic Spoilers, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 15:21:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12192495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaurien/pseuds/vaurien
Summary: "When Judar was a child, his dream was to marry Gyokuen."





	pretty things and how to kill them

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I think the concept that Gyokuen Ren is sexually abusive is relatively clear in regards to how she treated Kouen, Hakuryuu, and Judar. This is me expanding on what the horrible implications of Judar having wanted to marry her as a child are, and how she easily could have taken advantage of that to manipulate him further. With that said, this content includes implied (albeit non-graphic) CSA, so I'd recommend not reading further if that sort of thing could be triggering to you. Might delete this story later.

His care-taker is gentle when she runs the fine-toothed comb through his hair, a repetitive motion that continues until his hair is like silk and then some. He hates to be still for so long, to sit with his knees underneath him when that position becomes uncomfortable, but he doesn’t move, and he only complains a little. This routine is for her, after all. He thinks if he’s going to marry her in the future, he has to be ready to deal with these things, just like how one must deal with _things_ regarding _king candidates_ as well.

In the beginning, he complained about the length of it. _It was heavy,_ he said. _But_ Hakuryuu _has short hair,_ he said. But when he was told that long was what she liked—that she preferred hair that flowed, that denoted pride—he never thought of long hair as a burden ever again.

“She’s always liked pretty things,” Falan would mutter under her breath, smoothing out the wrinkles in stuffy robes that he hated.

He was happy to be her pretty thing.

\---

It’s scary when he first meets Barbarossa. But she spins such wonderful tales of him, feeds him with stories of all he has conquered, of what he has done and what he can do when Judar grants him his power, when Judar raises him his destined dungeon. She always made things less terrifying. Her voice was like a song, rhythmic and lulling him into a sleep. When he would wake, sometimes it was to his own bed, his body feeling strangely numb, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat.

Other times, he would wake up in the thick of the rituals that made him ill, the masked men that were at every corner, every dark wall, everywhere and anywhere he looked. Sometimes he would vomit. Little by little, the white birdies around him became darker until they were the same color as his hair.

Once you get used to it, the vomiting stops. But it never truly stops making you sick.

\---

On the night of the fire, he remembered the advice she gave him; Hakuyuu and Hakuren could not be kings. Naturally, they certainly could not become kings now. She must be so smart, even more incredible than he thought. Perhaps she can see the future. As he thought—he likes her more than anything. She has always been right about kings. Even if they fail, even through the crushing heartbreak of watching his first king candidate die, she has always recommended people that are fun.

Fun is what he likes most. And war brings a lot of it.

\---

He hadn’t noticed, at first, when her touch began to change. At the age of thirteen, there were things still similar about it that prevented him from noticing the subtle and yet dramatic changes to it. The hands playing in his hair began to tug, and fingers lingered far too long at his neck. The cute nicknames from his childhood disappeared and blue eyes aimed at him were dark.

When she invites him to her bedroom late one night, with smoky incense clouding his senses and the pig emperor nowhere to be seen, he thinks he’s an adult. He believes himself lucky. Finally, to be noticed. Finally, to have a chance with her. He’s mature now and that stupid king is full of it, calling him a child, calling him someone to be pitied—if only he could see him now. If only he could see how far he’s come.

\---

He thought he was quiet enough leaving her room, keeping his feet light down the halls, hoping he would make hardly a sound. But when the maid spots him, he knows she can see the red lipstick smeared on his cheek and he dashes for his room, not quite sure why he feels so sick after, body shivering and teeth chattering under his own bed sheets. 

\---

It was like that for years. The invitations were infrequent, happening twice or thrice a year, but the encounters were much the same. Each time he left her bed, another piece of him melted down into a dark quicksand, never to be retrieved again. He is used to it now when the palace is not. When she clings to his arm in front of the court, he forgets that anyone else would find it a scandal. He can scarce find it in him to feign surprise when she holds her hand against his chest. When she leans in to whisper intimately against his ear.

These days, he understands. He understands because of what the midget magi showed him that day; it’s something he’s been trying to forget from the beginning and has failed at ever since. He hates her touch. He hates to touch her. He hates that he ever thought himself mature enough to touch a woman who no one would ever be old enough to touch.

She came to him first with the plot to kill the pig emperor. He didn’t really mind. After all, he’s hated him for as long as he can remember. For stealing Gyokuen’s attention. He had known, or so he thought then, that Gyokuen was only with him so she could stay relevant within the empire. He thought of it as a temporary thing. A younger him would’ve been ecstatic. A younger him would have been delighted to know she could be his soon.

He responds in the way he thinks Gyokuen Ren would believe Judar might respond; with a ‘finally,’ a smirk, hands on hips, voice kept cool and nonchalant. He wishes he could tear her throat out when he’s finally dimissed—and when he watches in on the funeral, sees her slide her hand into Kouen’s robes, head pressed to his chest, he punches the stone walls until his knuckles bleed. He should have noticed. How could he not have known? And why does he care? He hated her. He hated her—and yet, that little boy in his mind, the one clinging to the bottoms of her robes, the one being reassured about stranger king candidates, the one having childish tears dried with pink sleeves—he felt betrayed.

He laughed, emptily, dryly. How can you feel betrayed? How can you feel betrayed about a sick promise that was never even made to you? Grow up. Grow up.

\---

They hate her for different reasons, but none of that matters as long as she is dead. Hakuryuu is not his first choice, nor his second, nor his third or fourth. But none of that matters.

Not as long as he can kill that fucking witch.

\---

He had hoped she might be a little more surprised to see them there. There must have been a part of her that hadn’t expected Judar to rebel. But to be fair, he had never seen her wear a look of surprise on that painted face ever before. Tonight that would change. Tonight she would be brought low by the very monsters she helped create.

He knows it’s because he’s there that she does it. The familiar red lipstick smears on Hakuryuu’s face when she kisses him, and he wonders if he is too shocked to retaliate and bite off her tongue. Though she’s speaking to her son, she looks at him when she laughs, speaking of how proud of him she is. He did try to keep his face neutral. He didn’t want her to feel accomplished. He’s only a little amazed she’d do this to her own flesh and blood as well.

But she had already burnt down her first two children, so maybe a kiss wasn’t as terrible in comparison.

\---

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen… twenty years,” each number is punctuated with a kick to her ribs, delighting in how she coughs, how her frame wracks with every blow. “How dare you raise me for all this time? If it weren’t for you, I would be more… more…”

He blinks, back to his senses. He shrugs a little, laughing, sweat dripping down his skin. “Huh. Was I going to say something? Whatever. It doesn’t matter now…”

He hopes to burn the image of her decapitated head into his mind forever, to call upon the memory whenever he found himself in need of a smile.

\---

He visits the desolate remains of the village she scoured: his hometown. He imagines it was what might be considered typical for Kou villages far from the palace. A close knit community. A lot of farming, with animals and plants and hard work painting the landscape. He imagines his parents; his mother, pregnant with him, watching her husband, his father, take care of the work in the fields, doing his best so that the baby in her stomach might flourish. He imagines the neighbors, maybe bringing food to help out, to hear if they’ve decided on a name yet for their baby.

He imagines the flames consuming them, drowning out their last screams. He has killed many times and bore witness to worse deaths than fire can cause, so he doesn’t vomit or cringe or cry. He feels nothing for these people, no matter how hard he tries.

If he had grown up here, he would not be pretty. He would be dressed in dirty farmer clothes, made to work and for hands to grow tough from holding tools. Pale skin would’ve darkened to brown in the sun, the light would’ve made freckles on his nose. He would have perpetual dirt on his face, and at no point would he ever have been completely clean. He would have slept on a matted floor instead of a luxurious bed. He would wake up early in the mornings to get water from the lakes instead of sleeping in, napping here and there throughout the day.

He would not have been her pretty thing if he had grown up here. He would not have been preserved so well, kept away from skinned knees and bug bites and all the normal hallmarks of growing from child to adult. And his hair would have been shorter, much shorter if he lived here.

Every choice he ever made was in accordance to her plans. Every king candidate had been endorsed by her at the end of it all. Even Hakuryuu. His penchant for war, his love for his long black hair, his adoration of magic made with black rukh was all planned by her. It was all by design. And for as much as he would rather not admit it, he’s unsure of what his next step outside of her plan should be. He was never taught how to be independent, after all. He learned that when Alibaba bitched at him in outer space for not knowing how to run his own bath—but hey, that’s not _THAT_ bad, is it?

It’ll take some time to learn how to be a version of Judar that wasn’t shaped by her: the real him. But he’ll find it.

He’ll find it.


End file.
